


Sickness and Health

by reona32



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Short Story, just the flu, sick illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: Illya gets sick with the flu and (not that he's given a choice) goes home to rest. By himself. Napoleon is not having any of that nonsense.





	Sickness and Health

It started on Sunday as a tickle in his throat and by Tuesday had bloomed into full on influenza. Illya went into Uncle medical in hopes of being given something to get through the day and was promptly sent home when it was discovered he had a 101 degree fever, after a very stern lecture about the dangers of not treating illnesses seriously. To make sure he got there, the head physician summoned a Section VI agent to drive him home. Grumbling that he was not a wayward child, Illya allowed himself to be chauffeured back to his apartment in the Village. He could not stop coughing and even he would privately admit that he was too dizzy to drive by that point.

Walking up three flights of stairs made his chest burn but Illya made it to his small apartment. The living room had six bookshelves, most half empty by this point. His possessions had been steadily migrating the last couple of months. A small table covered in dusty stacks of paper dominated the corner, near the passage to the narrow galley kitchen. On the other side of the living room was the door to the tiny bedroom and bathroom. Illya stumbled inside and collapsed on the ugly pea green sofa. He meant to pull himself up after he caught his breath and go to bed but sleep claimed him before he could gather the strength.

The sun had already set when Illya was jolted awake some hours later by his door being unlocked. He was not so sick that he'd forgotten to secure his door but he was apparently sick enough to have stupidly shrugged out of his holster and left his gun on the opposite end of the coffee table. The Russian scrambled for the weapon, coughing as he slid onto the floor. 

“It's just me,” announced Napoleon as he nudged the door open with his foot. The light clicked on. Illya let his gun drop, not even sure he'd gotten the safety off, and coughed. Napoleon hurriedly put down the duffel bag and paper grocery bag he was carrying and rushed to his side. “Easy, easy,” he comforted, rubbing a hand over Illya back and supporting him as he hacked. “Louis said you were sick but I didn't think you were this bad.”

Napoleon helped Illya back up onto the sofa as his coughing slowed and went back to where he'd dropped his things. He returned with a Styrofoam cup of tea from the deli down the block. It was still hot by some miracle and Illya curled his fingers around the cup and took grateful sips that soothed his sore throat. Napoleon pressed a swift kiss to Illya's temple and disappeared into the kitchen with the bag of groceries. “What are you doing here, Napoleon?” croaked Illya. He couldn't breathe through his nose anymore and it made him sound flatter than usual.

“When I came back from Washington this morning, April told me you had been sent home sick,” replied Napoleon, reappearing with a glass of water and two little white pills. “I pestered Doctor Louis until he told me you had the flu. Here, take these.”

Illya squinted suspiciously at the pills. “What are they?”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Aspirin. Now take them. I brought that soup you like too.”

“Matzah ball?” Illya asked hopefully.

“Yes. Pills. Now.”

Illya swallowed them and the promised soup appeared as reward. “You still have not told me what you are doing here,” Illya said, spooning the warm soup into his mouth.

“Well, I did go home first but you weren't there, so I figured you'd come here to lick your wounds alone,” Napoleon said, rustling around the kitchen. “Like some wild animal,” he added with an arch look as he walked past. Illya blinked, realizing that his partner meant the penthouse apartment, where half his book collection currently resided. “So, I headed over here instead with provisions. As I thought, there is nothing in your kitchen that isn't canned.” The brunet sounded very disapproving but Illya tried to remember the last time he'd spent more than a couple hours in his apartment. Months ago it had to have been. The majority of his time was spent at Napoleon's place. “Do you even have any clean towels here?” complained Napoleon from the bathroom, pouting distinct in his voice. 

No, because the last time he had taken a shower here was two weeks ago. Illya shook his head at himself, a little smile curling his lips. He may feel like death warmed over at the moment but he was fairly sure the warmth in his chest had nothing to do with his fever. He hadn't even thought to have the Section VI agent take him to the penthouse apartment which, he realized, had a lot more creature comforts than his little Uncle assigned flat. Napoleon came out of the bedroom and knelt by the duffel bag he'd left by the door. “Good thing I came prepared.” He pulled out towels and pajamas. “Have you finished your soup, Illya? How about a hot shower?”

“I'd like that,” Illya said softly.

Napoleon came over to peer into Illya's bowl. It was still half full. “Do you want any more?” Illya shook his head and Napoleon grabbed the bowl, heading for the kitchen. “I'll wrap it up and you can have more when you feel like it.”

Illya could hear Napoleon moving about the apartment as he leaned against the shower wall and let the hot water beat against his back and the steamy air ease his congestion. The heat helped with the shivers and the cold toes and fingertips. He did not know what Napoleon had in his seemingly bottomless duffel bag but Illya suspected it was more than enough to make his apartment suitably habitable.

Just as the water began to cool, Napoleon appeared with a big fluffy towel and warm flannel pajamas. Soon Illya was bundled into bed. The bed had fresh sheets, as he thought, and a warm quilt he'd never seen before. “Do you want more tea before you sleep?” Napoleon asked, puttering around the bathroom setting things right.

“No,” Illya replied, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was relaxed and warm for what seemed the first time in days and Morpheus was tugging hard.

Napoleon hung up the wet towel with a fond shake of his head and then walked over to the bed to sit on the edge. “Alright, love. Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.” He leaned over and kissed the blond's forehead. Napoleon then smoothed the quilt over Illya's shoulders and stood.

“Love you, dushka,” mumbled Illya.

Napoleon paused in the doorway, looking back at the bed in surprise. He smiled. “I love you too, Illya,” he said softly, fairly sure the other man was already asleep and oblivious. He shut the door half way and wandered into the kitchen. He'd make himself a sandwich and then settle on the sofa for some sleep. The narrow single bed would not hold two, he knew. In the morning, if Illya was able, Napoleon would take him back to the larger apartment and have him finish convalescing there. The Russian would definitely appreciate a hot soak in the big tub, Napoleon thought with a chuckle.


End file.
